Gemotions

"What a mess," muttered Mark, kicking at a stack of forgotten books. The attic air was stale and heavy, thick with the smell of decay. He hadn't wanted to explore the attic. He’d been looking forward to his afternoon nap, and now this interruption was making his shoulders tighten and his breath shallow.

He picked up a dusty music box, its delicate porcelain surface chipped. He wound it up. A tinny melody filled the air. He stopped it abruptly, the music’s fragility only making his annoyance grow. The tune had already began to irritate him.

He was not in the mood for sentimentality, for echoes of lives long past. He wanted to be left alone. He was tired, and the day wasn't getting any better.